a poem of those removed from their mouths







had is such


a losing word


like hurt or


worse





the bay has

lost it's sea,


the evening it's


pilgrimage of dusk





the song is

without note and


sugar the taste


of rust




appear once






the view is certain of

falling




no rain would

be returning




a gaze of

once




an echo

copy




fits the

eyelid well




eyesore inflict






mouth made

easier for being

shut




you have

taken me

by the root




severed

the floor

i exist from




and the

magnolia walls

head hit




for all the

mind’s stars

to grimace




about to be written but not quite






beyond the silent pane

white voices lay

in strict autumn,

lips vague redness

and fading

clothes abrupt

leaves skeletons

beginning




gazes upon sullen pages

ink poised lake

lazy, pools of deeply

midnight, and froze

upon a mirror

a look that interrupts

disgust, where the chrome

flowers bend over in bud




about to fruition




thru’ finale of air







it’s quiet time

for breathing,

in like withdrawn

shadow,

out like an

empty can

rust worrying




the silhouetted

steeples, peaks of

the lonely and

persecuted

honey




it’s trance time

for waking,

reanimated

from statue kingdoms,

perform

automatic

pursuit of clocks




there shade deep

in inches of

numb keeping

return the same

pitch perfect gaze




it’s decay time

for swooning,

to up end seas

to pause celibate constellations

in lush larders,

this breath

wants complete exit




begun to seep

to bring drowning

over, nearer,

years those certain

coffins unravel




grief whilst walking thru’ autumn’s detached fingers






in situ

becomes

a dead

larder

looked at

not ventured

or leaned

into




a space

where grey

infects

and makes

it’s universe

greyer

no bright thing

can exist




passed

by

ignored

is habitual

no cool

fingers

or voice

sings into




dust is

by dust’s

instinct

layers me

in fossil

thickness

inch by

yearly inch




refuse the outside






aperture diminish looking,

the appeal of outside is

horrendous, fierce whittling

voices carved from disgruntled

sadness is a weather to be missed




jagged traffic honed with horns

and intruding snarls and prods,

ink the air with cancer patterns

those mosaics of noise, come at

me with daggers of disguise




aperture shrink now and suffocate

daylight, noose that final sunbeam

into the dark inside an atom, withdraw

the view into unseeing, pinpoints

are eyeless exiled people




happens now the door is ajar no

more, and walls are sutured sobs

up to the ceiling, the floor sighed

with clothes, dysfunctional

snow not knowing where to fall




i am boxed within whiteness, hear

it’s outside anarchy wings panic,

endure the mob no more no

countless masks to stride thru’,

music insists my heartbeats




what would the coroner think

to find me on a bed of poems?

a word sea limited to the room

i persist in like a root,  thumbed

thru’ being rewritten


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